Like Snow White
by KeepCalmFanFicExists
Summary: Narcissa knows she should let her sister rest after fourteen years of imprisonment, but she can't live without having an answer anymore. Warning: contains sexual themes.


_Warning: Includes sexual themes, not very explicit, but still do read with caution._

Narcissa Malfoy softly pushed strands of hair away from her sleeping sister's face. The gaunt face, nothing like the perfect picture it used to be, stirred, and Bellatrix spoke in a raspy voice, as if the simple act of keeping her eyes open was torture.

"Cissy? What is it?"

"Bella... Bella, I need to ask you something..." the blonde mumbled, feeling utterly guilty for making her sister go through this when it was evident she could barely remain conscious. But she had to know. She couldn't live without having the answer.

"Bella, did the Dark Lord ever call you 'Snow'?"

The question escaped the thin lips before she knew it. This simple word, 'snow', had been haunting her nights for months, keeping her awake and plaguing her dreams with idyllic scenes where immaculate snow would turn blood-red the moment it touched her fingers. Narcissa had to admit to herself that the last few months had not been exactly easy, since the Dark Lord had risen again and Lucius' Mark had burnt like actual hell. But what Lucius pretended to not know was that his wife, sweet, beautiful Narcissa, who had never had the slightest involvement in Lord Voldemort's plans and actions, was getting sporadic invitations to his bed.

She could remember the evening she first got summoned as clearly as if it had happened this day. She had walked into the Grand Library of the Manor to get a book Draco had written was needed at school, and she had found him there, sitting in front of the fire, scribbling symbols and runes only he seemed to understand on a small leather notebook. The Dark Lord's crimson eyes had not left the page his pen was running across when he ordered her, without hesitation, to remove her clothing and lie down on the sofa nearest the fire.

There had been no room for refusal or discussion. The Dark Lord's wishes were law in this house and Narcissa had quickly obliged; she did not object when he entered her more violently and deeply than a man ever had, nor when his thrusts became so wild, her whole head was slamming painfully against the pillows. And she did not object when he quickly dismissed her the moment he found his precious release, not letting her see him in the weakness that was sure to follow.

He did not tell her to keep it a secret from her doting husband, for it did not matter. If Lord Voldemort wanted his wife, Lucius could do nothing but be proud.

Narcissa herself had not managed to feel particularly proud, but she had grown to look forward to these meetings. The Dark Lord, who looked sickly thin when wearing the multilayered black robes that were a favourite of his, in reality possessed a lean, flexible, yet muscular body. This had been the first in a list of fascinating contrasts about him that Narcissa would slowly discover in the seven months she would be the woman he chose to satisfy his human needs with. It was interesting, Narcissa would muse, how he did not tolerate being touched at all, getting enraged and punishing her severely even if her fingers found his flesh by accident, and how she had yet to say something, anything at him during those sessions. He would speak briefly, though, in a voice rather deeper than his usual high, clear tone, mainly to instruct her about a specific service she had to offer him or to introduce her to some new device he would be using on her.

She had not been used to the ways he enjoyed, and he had no regard for her pleasure or discomfort; he was completely unresponsive to her cries of pain and services, always looking straight ahead, the muscles of his snake-like face rigid and unchanging even when he would reach his climax. All these details that only a person who had been intimate with him could know were compensating for the bruises and soreness she received as a reward, and spawned the anticipation of another invitation right after one had ended. She did not love him, not like Bella, who had gladly endured Azkaban in his name for fourteen years, Narcissa' heart and soul belonged to Lucius Malfoy, her beloved husband, and she was very happy about it. But, like any other, she had been mesmerised by Lord Voldemort, flattered by his attention, intoxicated by his power. And this had been the reason Narcissa had been deeply upset when, in the last two weeks, every time she approached the Dark Lord in hopes he would guide her to his bedroom, he blatantly ignored her.

The fact that the two weeks of the Dark Lord's abstinence had coincided with Bella's breakout from prison had not soothed Narcissa's suspicions in the least. Instead of being told to strip, she had been given strict orders on how to take care of the woman who used to be her eldest sister and, she couldn't help the thought, the woman who still was the Dark Lord's mistress of choice.

Standing next to Bella's emaciated, wounded, completely exposed body, she still found it hard to believe that the Dark Lord actually preferred to have sex with Bellatrix for who Bellatrix was and not how she looked like. Because when Bella had been the most beautiful, most eligible young woman in Europe it had been understandable. But when her looks had faded and all that was left was a broken marionette, shouldn't the heartless Dark Lord, who never truly valued nor cared for anyone, just move on to the newest, prettiest model that Narcissa was?

And then the blonde had remembered. It had been late at night and she had been summoned to the Dark Lord's rooms. Her guess was that he had had a very hard day, because he had fucked her in a rough, mad manner that had scared and disturbed her deeply- more than the handcuffs and ropes and chains that he liked to play with. Only the moment he was finding his release, a desperate, barely audible moan had escaped his non-existent lips: 'Snow'.

 _Snow_. Frozen water. Purest white. The poetic words of a Muggleborn Ravenclaw from her days in Hogwarts flickered in her memory: 'lips as red as blood, hair as black as ebony, skin as white as snow'.

Narcissa pushed back another strand of ebony hair and the pain in Bellatrix' eyes reflected her own, and she knew the answer before it was whispered.

"Yes."

 _A/N: Thank you for reading, please let me know what you think._


End file.
